d and
I have sought as our greatest privilege to take unconverted friends one
by one to the Agricultural hall, and I thank God that, with a single
exception, those brought under the preaching from your lips have
accepted Christ as their Savior, and are rejoicing in his love."

That lady was a lady of wealth and position. She lived a little way out
of London; gave up her beautiful home and took lodgings near
Agricultural Hall, so as to be useful in the inquiry room. When we went
down to the Opera House she was there; when we went down to the east
end, there she was again, and when I left London she had the names of
150 who had accepted Christ from her. Some have said that our work in
London was a failure. Ask her if the work was a failure, and she will
tell you. If we had a thousand such mothers in Chicago we would lift it.
Go and bring your friends here to the meetings. Think of the privilege,
my friends, of saving a soul. If we are going to work for good, we must
be up and about it.

Arthur P. Oxley! Your Mother Wishes to See You.

There was a lady that came down to Liverpool to see us privately; it was
just before we were about to leave that city to go to London to preach.
With tears and sobs she told a very pitiful story. It was this: She said
she had a boy nineteen years of age who had left her. She showed me his
photograph, and asked me to put it in my pocket. "You stand before many
and large assemblies, Mr. Moody. My boy may be in London, now. Oh, look
at the audience to whom you will preach; look earnestly. You may see my
dear boy before you. If you see him, tell him to come back to me. Oh,
implore him to come to his sorrowing mother, to his deserted home. He
may be in trouble; he may be suffering; tell him for his loving mother
that all is forgiven and forgotten, and he will find comfort and peace
at home." On the back of this photograph she had written his full name
and address; she had noted his complexion, the color of his eyes and
hair; why he had left home, and the cause of his so doing. "When you
preach, Mr. Moody, look for my poor boy," were the parting words of that
mother. That young man may be in this hall to-night. If he is, I want
to tell him that his mother loves him still. I will read out his name,
and if any of you ever hear of that young man, just tell him that his
mother is waiting with a loving heart and a tender embrace for him. His
name is Arthur P. Oxley, of Manchester, England.

T